Butt-End.

I feel sick to my stomach since I woke up today,
drizzling outside despite triple digits on Monday;

a new thorn stuck into my freshly healed side,
a truth to replace the waste left behind the falsified;

indeed, that as ugly as it is, this new reality standing-off with me,
it is always worse to be on Bang End of the gun barrel, undoubtedly;

You know pretty well: that I’m “OK to Corral”,
I count to ten pretty Gods damned well;

I’ve got little to fear as the long moments linger,
Chambered a round and I’m dead-steady fingered;

I have been recently reminded again,
so let me clarify it for you, Little Man;

the “shooter” always gets the last laughed upper hand,
and here and now – that would be ME holding the butt-end.